Girls In White Dresses: A Detective London McKenna Novel

by Alex Gates

  It was useful information, but it’d have been better if they’d found that van a week after the abduction—or even fifteen days. But after fifteen years…

  No one would ever blame Louisa if her memory of that day was a bit hazy.

  “I know you’re trying to help your sister,” I said. “But are you sure you found the right man?”

  Louisa’s voice lowered—deep and graveled by whatever shards of her childhood she’d swallowed over the years. “I will always remember that man. Until the day I die, every time I close my eyes, every time I sleep at night, I’ll see his face. He took something from me. Someone. I love my sister so much. I don’t know what he did with her, but I know he’s still out there. Waiting. He knows where she is, and I won’t rest until I find her.”

  “And I’ll help you, but people change—faces change.”

  “You wouldn’t forget a face like his.”

  “Why?”

  “Have you ever seen pure evil, Detective?”

  The question pitted in my stomach.

  And then I was there again. With him. A monster. A demon.

  A man whose face I could never, would never, and refused to forget. I didn’t want to answer Louisa or to remember that cold, ruthless stare.

  Evil didn’t believe in mercy. And now, neither did I.

  My voice didn’t weaken, only flattened, hollow and guarded. “I’ve experienced things you couldn’t imagine.”

  Louisa shared the same pained shadow in her words. “Then you know. I can’t forget him. He’s out there, Detective. Help me find Anna. You have to stop him before he takes another innocent girl.”

  4

  Trust your instincts, London.

  They’re never wrong…

  -Him

  The alarm went off, but James and I weren’t sleeping.

  The wake-up call was premature, and we both groaned. A few moments of rushed, unceremonious enjoyment later, and we resigned ourselves to face the morning.

  He rolled away, his bare chest gleaming with sweat. He took a satisfied puff of air, rubbed his chin, and once more morphed into the calm and composed Doctor James Novak—handsome, attentive, and every girl’s dream boyfriend.

  Or psychologist.

  Not mine, but close enough.

  The alarm buzzed again. James smacked it. His badge fell off the nightstand into his overnight bag. The gold shield glittered in the low light cast from the crack in my white curtains. Since the kidnapping, I didn’t like complete darkness. The white muted the brightness instead of suffocating in the dark, and that was better.

  Just enough darkness to sleep even if I could still read the insignia on his badge.

  FBI

  Ten years ago, the bureau had completely invaded my home and privacy. Every secret, every friend, every place I’d ever gone was categorized, scrutinized, and weighed for patterns. They’d found nothing, no reason for me to be targeted.

  Once I came back, once I was safe, they left.

  James stayed, but it still took five years before I accepted his offer to buy me a cup of coffee.

  It’s personal, he’d said. Not professional. We won’t talk about it ever again. Not unless you want to.

  I hadn’t believed him then, but, to this day, he’d stuck to his word. Just as I did mine. I’d never forgive what happened to me, but I could sure as hell forget it. Every day I focused only on helping others, doing everything I could to ensure no one ever endured that sort of hell again.

  The awkward quiet settled—a comfortable moment after the rush of adrenaline that should have been caressed with sweet words and other such declarations. I gave the silence ten seconds before it prickled at me.

  “When are you leaving?”

  James had caramel eyes, a mocha voice, and enough sweetness in him to give me cavities. He tucked his arms behind his head, and I pretended I wasn’t impressed with the strength that bulged the defined muscles. He stayed in shape, even if he couldn’t do the field work anymore. Despite the tinge of grey against his temples—well-earned for a man of forty—he looked good.

  He claimed he didn’t have a sly smile. I knew better. “Are you that eager to get rid of me?”

  “Just planning my day.”

  It had taken two years of dating the man, but I could finally roll out of bed naked and walk around the room without worrying about grabbing a robe or shirt to cover my scars. It’d probably take another two years before I’d let him see me with my wet hair in a towel and conditioning mask on my face. Had to save some mystery.

  “I’ve got a couple cases to check on today.” I sipped from a bottle of water I’d left on my vanity yesterday. Or was it the day before? “I don’t know if I should be back for dinner.”

  “If I said I’d be here, would you make me something?”

  Silly man. “I’d definitely order you something.”

  “With meat this time?”

  My vegetarianism wasn’t a choice. I hadn’t touched meat in ten years, not since the knife had aimed for me. James could do what he wanted though—even if his cholesterol had gotten better since sharing my meals.

  “You can have extra pepperoni on your pizza.”

  “That’s my happy homemaker.”

  He checked his watch instead of the clock radio on the nightstand. He still squinted while reading the numbers. His vision was poor in the mornings. And in low light. He didn’t say it, but I knew it was bad at dusk now.

  It was one of the reasons he was pulled from the field and strapped behind a desk. At least, until his sight got too bad for that too. But the doctors said he still had time before considering those possibilities. We didn’t talk about it much. Neither of us wanted to worry. There’d be enough time for that.

  “I’m flying to DC this afternoon,” he said. “Don’t expect me before Saturday—and that’s if we’re lucky.”

  “That’s okay. I might have to pull some overtime.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you work too much, Detective McKenna?”

  “Projecting, Dr. Novak?”

  He smirked. “You know, we could make this easier on ourselves.”

  “How so?”

  “Move in with me.”

  And those were the words that’d haunt me more than Louisa’s ominous have you ever seen true evil question.

  I’d take law, justice, and a good mystery over the roast in the oven, white picket fence, and weekends with the in-laws. Maybe one day. Maybe some time.

  But not now. Not yet.

  I arched an eyebrow. “Move in with you? Your house is closer to the FBI offices. It’ll add fifteen minutes to my commute.”

  “Then I’ll come here.”

  My handsome Victorian home was far too big for a single occupant who spent most of her time passed out in the bed or rummaging in the fridge before heading to work. And James already had a toothbrush in the bathroom, DVD in the player, and his very own spice rack in the pantry.

  I led him with a question he’d answer too honestly. “Are you that eager to spend your life with me?”

  James lowered his voice, his words a hushed promise of time and commitment and space. All the damned things I wished a man as good as him wouldn’t offer. “I’m waiting for you to start yours.”

  “I’ve told you before. I don’t think I’ll ever be right. I put as many pieces of me back together that I could find, but not all of them fit. I’m still missing most of them.”

  “Then I’ll fill in the gaps.”

  “Is that fair to you?”

  He let it drop, checking the messages on his phone. “Nothing has to happen before you’re ready, London.”

  “What if I’m not?”

  “We do what we’ve done for the past ten years. Take it day-by-day.”

  “Like it’s that easy.”

  “Watch.” He smiled. “I’ll go to DC. You go to work. And we’ll see how we feel at the end of the day.”

  I hated to tell him, but he already knew. I always felt the same at the
end of every day.

  Empty. Angry.

  And in absolutely no place where I could give my heart to a man as good as James Novak.

  “Call me when you land?” I asked.

  “Always.” He called to me before I ducked into the bathroom. “Love you.”

  I tapped the door frame, averting my gaze.

  “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  Seven AM was a hell of a time for a summon to Homicide.

  Ten years ago, I’d made a deal with the devil not to die before lunch. It was such an odd plea for mercy, he’d agreed. His bargain had lasted from the moment I finally escaped that blood-stained cellar to the present day. Unfortunately, a greater evil existed in the world. Working before the sun rose? Worse than a lake of fire.

  Riley ate only apples for breakfast. Falconi had snatched one of his kids’ Lunchables. He carefully layered the fake pepperoni on the cardboard crust and gave me a wink.

  “Got a job for you, McKenna.”

  I needed another roll in the sheets before I’d be able to fake a pleasant smile.

  “Thought you guys were taking the lead on the Abbott murder?” The question was probably too hostile. They didn’t notice.

  “Your sergeant told us we could grab you for any odd task that might help the investigation,” Falconi said.

  “And now Adamski owes me another lunch.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Riley handed me a folder. “Feel like playing with the big boys today?”

  “And here I thought I’d have to amuse myself with paperwork all morning,” I said. “What’s so tough you two strapping men can’t handle it?”

  Falconi took the bait with a chuckle. “We found our John Doe. His name is Alan Henry. Twenty-five years old. No priors. Squeaky clean.”

  “How’s a guy like that just suddenly snap?”

  Riley shook his head. “Got a more important question—where’s his wife?”

  “You lost Mrs. Henry?”

  Falconi inhaled his fake pizza, nearly dripping the sauce over his papers. “This is a good job for you. Find his wife. Someone’s gotta notify her.”

  “Oh.” I bit my lip before saying something distinctly unprofessional. “So, you want me to spend my morning tracking a woman you can’t find so I can be the one to give her the news that her husband wasn’t just an adulterer but also a homicidal maniac?”

  “That’s the plan.” Riley rocked his chair and pushed a photograph towards me. “We found this in his Bible. It’s a picture of his wife, apparently. Old picture, I’d guess. Maybe from when they were younger. Says Rachel Goodman on the back.”

  The scribble did read as Rachel Goodman, but it was wrong.

  That gnawing twist in my gut returned. I stared at the photograph, studying her hair, her eyes, the little scar that sliced through her left eyebrow.

  “This isn’t his wife,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me he has another mistress.” Falconi swore. “This guy thumps more than his Bible.”

  “Good reason to head back to church,” Riley said.

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

  I lunged over Riley, stealing his keyboard to bring up our database. He grumbled, but he entered his login so I could scan the files for a face so familiar it curdled my breakfast.

  “This isn’t his wife.” I scrolled through the listings. “I know this girl.”

  “How?” Riley batted my arm away and tried to take control of his mouse.

  “She’s one of my runaways.”

  Falconi sat on the edge of the desk. “What the hell is a runaway doing married to this creep?”

  The information flashed on the screen. Her picture followed. The same brown eyes, harshly angled eyebrows, and slightly gap-toothed smile. Alan Henry’s photo was definitely her, but it was older than anything her parents had. Someone had taken it after she ran away.

  “This is Nina Martin. She went missing in 2014 at the age of twelve, was gone for two years, and just came home.”

  “Jesus, she’s fourteen?” Riley grabbed the picture. “Looks older.”

  “Looks tired,” Falconi said. “Do you know where to find her? Is she with her family?”

  “No. That’s the problem. Nina went missing again three days ago. I’ve got Amber Alerts issued. Damn it! I knew there was a reason she ran! He must have taken her.”

  “Has anything come in on the alert?” Riley asked.

  “No.” I tucked her picture into my pocket. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll find her.”

  “How?” Falconi shrugged. “You’ve been looking for her for two years. If she’s gone—”

  “They’re never gone. A person is easy to find—but the reason they run? That’s the challenge.” I stared at the entry in the database, a new fire burning deep in me. “Why did Alan Henry have a picture of a fourteen-year-old girl in his wallet?”

  Falconi’s voice darkened. “You know the answer to that. The question is…where do you find her?”

  Two years working with sexual assaults left little to my imagination anymore. I hated the thought.

  “If Nina Martin was involved with Alan Henry…he’s the reason she’s disappeared.”

  5

  You know what curiosity did to the cat.

  Still want to know why I’ve chosen you?

  -Him

  “This can’t be happening again.”

  Nina Martin’s distraught mother tore her Kleenex to shreds. None of them were tear-stained. After so many years, so many unanswered questions, so many heartaches, I had no idea how she kept breathing, let alone weeping.

  What should have been a gentle thirty-five years of life had instead greyed her hair and skin. Her eyes puffed, perpetually swollen. She tugged at dulled, untreated brunette hair with chubby fingers. Nina had been my first Missing Persons case two years ago. I remembered a different Emily. One thinner. Prettier. More stable.

  “She just came home.” Emily lowered her head into her hands. “Why? Why would she leave? Where would she go? This is her home.”

  Nina’s father, Ryan Martin, sat silently in his Lazy Boy. The beige chair was broken, stained with a discolored ring from where a beer can usually set on the arm. Ten in the morning wasn’t a good time to be drinking around the police, but no one faulted him. Two years ago, he’d been the first suspect in Nina’s disappearance. The suspicion and investigation wore him out. He lost most of hair after Nina left. Nearly lost the marriage too. Counseling helped, but no one had answers to this.

  Usually, teenage runaways split because of abuse or mistreatment. Often an untreated mental health condition explained reckless decisions. Not in this case. Plus, Nina was a good student, had dozens of friends, a solid church community, and a good relationship with both parents.

  Two years ago, Nina had simply vanished. And now? She’d done it again.

  “She wasn’t the same.” Ryan forced his words through a clenching throat.

  “Don’t.” Emily snapped. “Don’t say it.”

  “Jesus woman, you know it. I know it.” He pointed at me. “Even Detective McKenna knew something was wrong with that girl.”

  “She’s not that girl!” Emily stood. Half a dozen tissues tumbled from her lap. She wound herself in a faded blue robe, twisting her hands in the belt. “She is our daughter!”

  “She wasn’t the same.” Ryan sipped his beer. “Right, Detective?”

  I hedged. “You knew her best.”

  “Yeah. I thought I did.”

  “Was she traumatized?” I’d kept my notes from the interview with the girl after she’d returned. I’d underlined, circled, and drew arrows to the word in my notes. Whatever had happened, wherever she had gone, the experience had silenced her. “The psychologist told you to expect it.”

  “It didn’t get better.” Emily groped behind her, feeling her way to the couch without looking. “We thought…we’d give her time. Maybe she’d talk to the pastor or…or the therapist. But the more we
pushed…”

  “She ran,” Ryan said. “Shouldn’t have tried so damned hard.”

  And I was just as guilty. Too many calls. Too many questions.

  I should have known better. No person—abducted or coerced—was right after returning home. Even once they could fake it, even when they had everyone convinced and answered the right questions, every memory hurt. A slice of the past cut even deeper than the hell they’d lived through. Remembering was a self-inflicted abuse. Nina couldn’t face it. So she ran.

  “She was so scared,” Emily murmured. “She’d jump when the phone rang. Flinch at loud noises.”

  Ryan’s sigh bit the air as the breath passed through reluctant lungs. I had him pegged as an old-school quiet type. The steel mill guy who worked long hours, came home, and did his damnedest to find a moment’s peace before crashing at night to start the dirty monotony all over again.

  “People came to visit,” he said. “Family. Friends. She knew them. Should have remembered them.”

  “But?” I prompted.

  Emily answered while he took another swig of his beer. “The doorbell…stressed her. She was so afraid of people coming to the house that…we told the family to stop coming after she kept getting sick. It just wore her out.”

  I remembered those symptoms. PSTD was an unforgiving bitch. It wasn’t the diagnosis any parent wanted for their child either, especially a girl who refused to talk about what had happened to her. And the parade of well-wishers nebbing in her life? It didn’t help her heal. Probably only made her more overwhelmed, more ashamed.

  The job didn’t make me an optimist. I thought the worst. Heroin, prostitution, rape were only my first assumptions.

  But at least now I had a new angle.

  Alan Henry.

  And I’d find out why the murdering bastard kept a picture of a fourteen-year-old girl.

  I opened my laptop—impersonal, but I typed faster than I could write. “I’ll be asking you a lot of questions you’ve already answered. Be patient and give me as much detail as you can. I have a new lead, but I need your help.”